


Remember Me (When I Am Gone Away)

by Mizzy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:24:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 1 AU.</p><p>Dean’s just going up to Sam and Jess’ apartment, just for a conversation, and that sort of thing shouldn’t make anyone nervous.  It’s true he left things with Sam badly, but it’s a flimsy excuse for not making this trip to Stanford before, and Dean knows it.</p><p>He shouldn’t have left it this long, and now, the day’s going to be so much tougher because of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember Me (When I Am Gone Away)

Dean takes a few moments to compose himself, but doesn’t want to admit to himself that that’s what he’s doing.  

He’s just going up to Sam and Jess’ apartment, just for a conversation, and that sort of thing shouldn’t make anyone _nervous_.  Yes, it’s true he left things with Sam badly, but it’s a flimsy excuse for not making this trip to Stanford before, and Dean knows it.

He shouldn’t have left it this long, and now, the day’s going to be so much tougher because of that.

Dean adjusts the mirror again, fiddling with the plastic covering, covering up the reasons why he’s still sat in this seat having pulled up to the apartment building a good twenty minutes ago.  He sighs, clicking the cover the back in place, and looks up at the building.  He can almost imagine Sam standing there, at one of the dark windows, his face pulled into a frown, the frown he wore when Dean showed up back at the motel that last time, smelling of cheap perfume and reeking of beer, running off at the mouth about how wrong everything was.

 _I wasn’t asking for anything, Dean._ Sam’s voice is still accusing in his head.  _Just hoping that you wouldn’t shut me out just because you can’t admit you feel it too._

There’s only so long one person can sit still alphabetizing audio tapes, and after Dean’s done it twice, he forces himself to slide the box under the passenger seat, trying not to remind himself that Sam ought to be _in_ that seat.  If Dean hadn’t freaked out and gotten drunk and stupid…  If Dean had stood up to his dad when John and Sam had gotten into that stupid fight about college…  If Dean had come _with_ Sam when he’d asked…

 _Ifs don’t get you anywhere, son_ , John Winchester’s voice says, firm and commanding.  Dean mentally tells his father to do something anatomically awkward to himself, and swings himself out of the car.  Winchesters might be cowards when it came to talking about actual things that mattered, but they make up for it by being awfully brave in all other sorts of things.

Dean squares his shoulders, and heads into the apartment block, hurrying up the stairs and hoping that all the myriad feelings that had resurfaced painfully over the last couple of days don’t show all over his face.  He doesn’t want Jess to think Sam had a girl for a brother, after all.

After a lingering moment of doubt, the last moment he has to run for freedom, Dean hits the doorbell when he comes to the right apartment, and tries not to hope for the best.  He doesn’t think he would deserve it.

-+-+-+-

When the doorbell goes, Sam tries to pretend he didn’t let out a breath of relief that the sound broke the spell of silence that’s been wrapped around them for the last three days.  Jess, pale, doesn’t even look at him as she stands up from the chair and moves slowly over to the door, all the grace gone from her body.  Sam doesn’t blame her.  Her weirdness is his fault.

Sam hopes whoever the visitor is that they can’t notice that he and Jess had been arguing for a long time, but he can’t think how they’ll fail to see the tense lines of Jess’s back, and the dull pallor of her skin.

Sat as he is, around the corner, Sam can’t see who it is, but he knows as soon as the door opens.  It was bound to happen.  Dean could always almost smell when Sam was in trouble, and if this isn’t trouble, Sam doesn’t know what is.

”Hey, Jess, is it?  We spoke on the phone.  I’m Dean, Sam’s brother.  Is this a bad time?”

Sam watches Jess shake her head, her hair too dull.  “No, no, of course not.  Come in.  It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Sam can’t move from the chair, but he looks, and as soon as he can see Dean’s face, he almost can’t take it.  Dean’s eyes slide over him like he’s not there.  Sam resists the urge to duck his head and hide, and keeps his chin tilted up, his eyes firmly on Dean’s face.  Dean might snap eventually and look at him.  After his unique childhood, Sam never rules anything out.  He can hear the sharp bite of their last argument, though, and can see it in the set of Dean’s jaw, and he does not place a bet on it happening.

“How are you?”  Dean’s voice ghosts out, stilted in the small room.  His eyes skitter away from Sam’s direction, to take in the worn furniture, the cracked paint.  Student life isn’t glamorous, but Sam loves it, and he hopes that love is visible to his brother.

“Not sleeping terribly well,” Jess admits.  “But I’m pleased to meet you.  Take a seat.  Do you need anything to drink?”

“I’m all right, and how are you?” Sam adds in, excruciatingly polite, hating the frost in his voice but unable to pull it out.

Jess sits down on the chair next to his, her hand lingering on Sam’s arm rest.  Sam looks at it, but doesn’t take it, as Dean settles on the small couch opposite them.  Dean’s looking at Jess, not Sam, drinking her in, his eyes appraising.  Sam doesn’t blame him.  This is the first time Dean’s ever met Jess.  Dean’s a curious kind of guy, and his interest in Jess will be tangible until his curiosity is satisfied.  That’s just how life – and Dean – works.  Sam tries to pretend the ache in his chest isn’t because he’s _missed_ it.

Dean shakes his head.  “I’m fine.  This place is nice.”

“Got it cheap,” Sam says.

“Sam found it,” Jess adds, “just out of the blue.  Hey, found us a place near campus, and then remembered to add, oh yeah, Jess, you wanna live with me, right?”

Dean eyes flit to the left a second, and something in Sam lurches, like Dean was trying to seek out Sam’s approval or something, like everything was back to normal, before that argument, before Sam deliberately provoked John into kicking him out.  But Dean’s gaze strays back to Jess almost immediately.  “Sam’s a dork, all right.”

“I’m a dork?  You’re a dork,” Sam says, almost automatically.  He feels tense, and sick, and a thousand things at once.  This feels wrong, and out of place, like Dean should never have been here.  Dean Winchester does not belong in this ordinary world, and it’s only now that Sam sees how out of place he seems, how much Dean really wouldn’t fit in with a picket fence and swing set and magnolias in a vase.

Then again, Sam’s not entirely sure it’s _his_ world, either, but he can never explain that to Jess, not ever, and maybe that’s why they’d been so tense.

Jess laughs indulgently.  “How was your flight?”

“Huh?”

Sam recognizes the confused look on Dean’s face immediately, even though he hasn’t seen his brother for two years, and a hell of a lot can change in that time.  “He didn’t fly,” Sam says.

“Oh, did you drive up?  All the way from… Where were you?”  Jess folds her hands on her knees.

“Ransom canyon, Texas,” Dean says. 

“That must have been a hell of a drive,” Jess says, “couple of days, right?”

“You’ve obviously never seen Dean drive,” Sam says.

Dean pulls a wry face.  “I woulda flown, but I’m… a little tentative when it comes to flying.  ‘sides, my car’s my baby, you know?”

“You’re scared of flying?”  Jess sounds almost delighted.

“Since when?”  Sam demands.

“I know I shoulda flown.  Shoulda got here sooner.  Hell, should have been here two years ago, setting lil Sammy up at college.”  Dean’s voice is suddenly serious, low.

“Dean-“ is all Sam can say.

“Yes,” Jess says, a little unevenly.  Sam doesn’t blame her.  She’s been so angry at Dean for months, and more so of late, that he’s so proud of her calmness.  “You should.”

Dean doesn’t move his gaze away from Jess.  Sam knows it’s not Dean’s style.  Meet discomfort head on, meet pain straightforwardly, meet disaster with your fists flying.  It’s feelings you shy away from, and the truth, if you want to be a proper Winchester. 

Dean and Sam are both proper Winchesters.

“It’s not like I didn’t say some horrid things too,” Sam says, his voice low, but steadier than Jess’s.  He’s been rehearsing this little speech for a long time, wanting every day to say it to Dean.  “I deserve every bad thought you’ve had about me.”

“I know,” is all Dean says.  Sam isn’t expecting more, so he doesn’t protest, even though there’s a million things he should say, because Dean is _here_ , in _Stanford_ , like Sam always wished him to be.

“I just… find it so strange,” Jess says, shaking her head a little, “that after so long…  You turn up now?”

“Sam’s important to me,” Dean says.  “I mean-“

“I am?”  Sam huffs a little.  “News to me.  Do I have to remind you that you stood idly by while dad kicked me out?  I know you were sore about what happened the night before, but…”

“I know.  It’s going to take a while for everything to…” Jess interrupts, and flounders for a last word, and fails.

Dean just nods as if he understands, and gets to his feet, moving across to a dresser, and picks up a photo.  It’s of Sam and Jess, smiling.  “You look happy here.”

“Yeah, patently obvious that we don’t look happy now, huh?”  Sam says, forcing the words out even though every word feels like a brick in his throat.

“Was the day after our first year results,” Jess says, her voice soft in memory.  “The first day Sam told me he loved me.”

“The big sap,” Dean says, shaking his head, still staring at the photo, his thumb moving up to graze the glass a little.

“Hey,” Sam protests, but with little fire in his voice, because maybe it’s true.

“I’m sorry,” Jess says, abruptly, harshly, “I thought I was ready to deal with this-“

“Jess-“  Sam protests, but weakly, knowing it’s useless.

She gets up, and turns and storms off to the kitchen.

Dean lowers his head.  Sam’s still frozen.  Sam thinks of a hundred things to say, but can’t say a single one.

“This is a mess and a half, Sam,” Dean says, and his voice is broken.

“I know.”  Sam lowers his voice, and looks away, unable to look at Dean.  The hurt is palpable, winding its way into Sam’s chest, and he can’t breathe.  Not that it really matters.  “I’m sorry.  If I could change things, I would…”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just gets up and follows Jess into the kitchen.

Sam contemplates staying in the chair, burying his head in his hands and never moving again, but his curiosity is overwhelming, so he stands up, feeling weak, and moves cautiously closer to the kitchen, close enough to overhear Jess and Dean.  Eavesdropping is rude, of course, and Sam’s already a full set of steps closer to hell than he’s comfortable with, but one small thing won’t help or harm anything.

He’s not close enough to see Jess standing over the sink, but he knows she’s staring into nothingness through the window.  It’s her usual spot when she’s frustrated or overwhelmed, because she can grip the edge of the sink, and her small hands go pale, and Sam can barely think about it.

Dean stays silent, lets her speak.  Jess lets out a shattered breath.

“I only know your name because Sam said it once.  Spoke it once like it was a prayer.”

Sam brings himself to move, a little, but can only bring himself to the door, and he freezes at the sight of her back, all straight lines and tension.  Dean moves too, puts one arm up like he’s going to touch her, but she sees him move in the reflection of the window and she flinches, and Dean lowers his hand.

Instead of the comfort, Dean says, gently, “How did it happen?”

“A car,” Jess says, finally turning around, her face a mess of tears.  “Just a stupid car.”

“It was a demon,” Sam interrupts, wryly, “Threw me six floors out of a window into the road.”

Dean audibly swallows hard, but it’s the only visible reaction.  “And his body-“

“Gone.  Stolen, they said, from the morgue.  I mean, who would do such a thing?”  On that note, Jess’s voice breaks, and she breaks, falling at Dean, burying her face in his t-shirt while Dean awkwardly pats her back, holding her like she’s a foreign object, or a cursed talisman that might break and explode in his hands.

“Stolen,” Dean says, his voice level.

“I had plans in place,” Sam says.  “I was under no illusions. If I died early, I’d come back as a ghost, easy.  Unfinished business all around.  I’m not gonna let you salt and burn me until it’s over.”

Sam steps forward into the kitchen, but hesitant.  Dean and Jess next to each other, right there, is like something out of his dreams, although Dean’s stern expression and Jess’s tears are more like a nightmare.

He can think of a thousand things to say, but all of them fall short of inadequate.  Instead he waits, and watches, and hopes that Jess will get over everything, because if the demon breaks someone _else_ , then Sam will rest at nothing ‘til the demon’s deader than he is right now.

Eventually Dean runs out of those stock platitudes he uses on the grieving families of supernatural victims.  Jess hands Dean all of Sam’s meager possessions, and when Jess excuses herself for a minute, Dean sneaks into their bedroom and hauls out Sam’s hidden case of weapons from behind a false panel in the closet, and slings them out the window to pick them up later.

It’s only with the apartment empty of his things, with Dean stood there stony-faced and covered in Jess’s tears that Sam can’t bear to stay in the building any longer, which is odd because for the last three days he hasn’t been able to be anywhere else.

Moving around dead is _weird_. Sam just has to think of being outside and he is, a few feet away from a sight so familiar it aches – the Impala, sleek and predatory, standing out amongst the cheap cars of the student population.

Being dead sucks, and Sam thinks he really ought to go back up to see Jess, even though she can’t see him, because he’s sure he owes her more.

Sam’s so wrapped up in his own gloom that he almost misses Dean stomping across the gravel and flinging himself into the driving seat, burying his head in his arms over the steering wheel.  Unwilling to be left behind, Sam focuses his attention, almost able to feel the passenger seat beneath him, but he knows it’s his imagination.  Ghosts can’t feel anything physical at all, Sam’s discovered.  If he concentrates really hard, he can move things a little, or hijack a computer, but his biggest feat so far was smashing a glass into a wall, and it just made Jess cry more, so he hasn’t tried that since.

It takes Sam a few minutes to realize Dean might actually be crying, shaking in the seat, his shoulders quaking a little.

Sam’s chest tightens.  That sort of feeling doesn’t stop.  Emotionally, Sam is still 100% there.

“Dean-“ Sam manages, his voice thick, the words hard to force out.  The problem with being dead is that Sam knows his trouble speaking is all mental.  You can’t have physical problems with your body if you don’t have a body any more. 

After a minute, Sam tries again.  “Dean?”

But Dean doesn’t move, just keeps shaking, and Sam’s hope withers.

Not even Dean can see him.

Meaning, he has to hang around Dean until Dean comes across someone who _can_.

“I’m sorry I died?” Sam tries again.  “I don’t want you to cry,” he adds, forlorn.  “I know, I should never have come, blah blah, you were right.  But I was on to something, Dean, that’s why he killed me.  I got his name.  Now I just need to get you  or dad it.  Somehow.  This _sucks_ , though, being dead?  Sucks to high heaven.  Not that that’s where I’ll be headed.”  With a wry twist of his mouth, Sam sinks his head back. 

Dean doesn’t move beyond the shaking.

“Crying over me…  I am surprised.  Touched, even,” Sam murmurs.  “I do wish you’d stop and move the shit on so we can figure this out.  We need to find a séance I can crash, or something, and soon…“

As if hearing Sam, Dean lifts his head a little, and starts to fumble with his keys, sliding them into the ignition.  “I can’t believe you got yourself killed by a demon, Sammy,” Dean says, admonishingly.

Sam stares.

Dean lifts his head up, and smirks at Sam.  “You should close your mouth.  If a ghost bus comes along you might swallow it.”

“You can see me!” Sam demands.

“No shit, dead Sherlock,” Dean quips back.

Sam narrows his eyes at Dean.  “Why didn’t you say anything?  And why were you crying if you could see me?”

“I was laughing,” Dean says, with a grin.  “I forget how melodramatic you can be.  I was hoping for better blackmail material but I couldn’t keep it up forever.”

“I wish,” Sam says slowly, “that I could hurt you right now.”

“Sucks to be you,” Dean says, starting the engine, then his grin falters.  “I am going to have to salt and burn you, you know.”

“I might move on on my own,” Sam says.

They’re silent as Dean eases the car out of the lot, because neither of them believe Sam. 

“We need to hurry up,” Sam says, wanting to fill up the awkward silence.

Dean looks like he’s going to slow the car down until Sam says, “The demon that killed me is the one that killed mom.”

Something deep in Dean’s face closes off and he pushes down on the accelerator. The Impala purrs into life beneath them, and swallows up the countryside in a blur of colors. “Then we’ve got work to do.”


End file.
